A Brother's Love
by Raikune
Summary: It isn't easy being Philippe de Chagny. Imagine having Raoul as a brother. Ew. Now imagine sharing the same birthday as him...strange chocolates, falling chandeliers, eccentric Opera staff, an annoyed Phantom...let the chaos commence!
1. Birthday Surprise

A Brother's Love  
  
Summary: First Phanfic..be kind! Starring the poor, neglected Philippe de Chagny. What bad luck that I made he and Raoul share the same birthday.how will Philippe survive the horror? WARNING: Raoul bashing to ensue! Run, all you Raoul-lovers, run I tell you!!  
  
DISCLAIMER: I own nooothing.but I think I should own the Comte because you heartless people don't care about him! All right I confess: I don't own him either! *sobs* Or Erik! *sobs louder*  
  
All kind reviewers get a virtual pink muffin ^_^  
  
Chapter One: Birthday Surprise  
  
The honorable Comte Philippe de Chagny groaned as the morning sunlight hit him square in the face. Sitting up, he yanked the drapes of his four-poster bed shut and retreated back under the covers, muttering darkly to himself. He was cursing the maids for leaving them open when a sudden thought occurred to him.  
  
It was his birthday today. He'd be forty-two.  
  
Huddled up in his ball of bedcovers Philippe groaned loudly at the thought of certain family members he'd have to share it with. Usually, for normal families, for brothers who shared the same birthday the occasion was a happy one. Unless your brother happened to be.Raoul.  
  
And speaking of Raoul.  
  
The Comte winced as his ears detected the sound of witless feet skipping up the stairs to his suite. The bedroom door burst open and Raoul, clad in only light-pink boxers with flowery bunnies on them, leapt onto bed. The young Vicomte was beaming, totally oblivious to his elder brother's scowl.  
  
"Happy birthday, dear brother! Do you like my boxers?" He snapped the waistband. "Our cousin Jiselle sent them from Rouen! She knows just what I like! And there's a pair for you as well, except they're purple."  
  
Philippe shielded his eyes. "Gods, don't ever wear those in front of me again! Have you no decency? Go and get dressed, and -"  
  
Raoul pouted. "Aren't you going to wear yours as well?"  
  
"NO! I mean.not today. I plan to save them for a special occasion." Philippe immediately cringed. And what occasion would that be; dear Comte? He thought darkly. Fortunately, Raoul wasn't bright enough to catch this.  
  
"Oh, ok. By the way, Philippe, I've bought you a present as well. I think you'll love it, it's really you."  
  
"I bet."  
  
"No, really. But it's a surprise. I'll give it to you later." The Vicomte giggled.  
  
"I can't wait." Philippe disentangled himself from the bedcovers, tossed aside the drapes and wandered over to his wardrobe. Upon opening it, he found an elegant dark boxing sitting on the bottom shelf, perfectly wrapped with a pale ribbon. Beneath it was a smaller, similar box. A little card read For Comte Philippe de Chagny in red ink. Philippe stared.  
  
Slowly he lifted the box, feeling it curiously. Turning back to bed he set it down, lifted the ribbon and opened it. Inside was something dark and soft, looking like clothing. Frowning, Philippe was about to ask Raoul if he knew who sent it when he noticed another note tucked in the side. He opened it. It read:  
  
My dear Monsieur  
  
Please consider this as a small token of gratitude for your continued patronage of the Paris Opera House. Although my information came from a somewhat idiotic source, I'm sure it is your size. Enjoy.  
  
O.G.  
  
P.S. The smaller box is for your foppish brother. They're chocolates: inside a tasteless, mild sedative I obtained from a friend. Use them to your advantage.  
  
"Opera Ghost?" Philippe asked softly, remembering his brother's constant whinging about a masked phantom-like figure, who was apparently trying to steal Christine away from him. Privately, the Comte was cheering for the ghost. Whom ever it was who sent this, he silently thanked them for the sedatives, hoping they would keep his energetic young brother in check. Glancing at Raoul, who was playing "This Little Piggy" with his toes, he was doubtful.  
  
Discarding the note, he lifted up the dark folds.  
  
It was a beautiful, finely tailored jacket, with narrow-hemmed trousers and an evening shirt, as darkly romantic as the man who bought it. Ghost or nor ghost, Philippe thought, the man had a fine taste in clothes. He laid the suit on the bed and turned to Raoul, now staring dreamily at the ceiling. Philippe sighed inwardly.  
  
"These are for you," he told him, tossing the small box of chocolates. "And for heaven's sake go and get dressed so we can have some breakfast."  
  
"That reminds me," Raoul cried, "I've cooked breakfast for us! A special birthday breakfast, for just the two of us. I made the butler show me how." He beamed.  
  
Philippe closed his eyes. "Thank you. Now please go and change.by the way, did you see who sent this?"  
  
"The eyes!" Raoul cried, "It was those strange eyes...I saw them in the corridor when I went to get a glass of milk, I was having nightmares about the Raoul-haters again -"  
  
"What?"  
  
"These strange girls," his brother gibbered, "with masks on, they chase me and call me a fop -"  
  
I wonder why. Philippe smiled at the Vicomte. "The eyes.?" he encouraged.  
  
"Oh yes! I saw them. Going toward your suite. Actually, taking your advice, I did think it was the cat so I said 'Kitty kitty kitty-poo,' but."  
  
"Well?"  
  
Raoul shrugged. "The eyes made a snorting sound and disappeared. I thought nothing of it and went back to bed."  
  
"Ah. No matter. I'll be down for breakfast in a minute, once I put my birthday suit on." Philippe turned away.  
  
The younger man eyed him quizzically. "Birthday suit? You're going out naked?"  
  
"No!" The Comte shouted, his patience wearing thin, "Get out, Raoul, and go put some different underwear on!"  
  
"I like my pink boxers!" Raoul flounced out, hugging the chocolates to his chest.  
  
Philippe put a hand to his temple. It was only 9:00 and he could feel a headache coming on already.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Sorry for the shortness! Well? Should I continue to torture the Comte and his brother? Appearances by our lovely Erik in the next chapter! ^_^ Review now! 


	2. At the Opera House

Raikune: Thank you all kind reviewers. You all get a pink muffin! ^_^ As this is a humorous fic the characters are _supposed _to be a tad OOC…because I assure you this is all complete randomness and I'm making it up as I go along. Enough from moi…on with the fic!

Philippe de Chagny adjusted his new jacket as he went down the stairs, admiring the fine material and superb fit. _I must, _he thought, _ask this Phantom fellow where he bought this, that ghost's got the most excellent taste in- _and his thought stopped dead as he reached the bottom of the staircase and peered into the adjoining room.

Although Philippe had steeled his nerves for whatever mess Raoul had undoubtedly created in the kitchen, nothing could have prepared him for the scene that met his eyes. Because not only had Raoul attempted to make breakfast, he had also taken it upon himself to re-decorate the kitchen. From top to bottom. 

It was a few seconds before the stunned Comte found his voice.

"Raoul!" he bellowed, swinging towards the carpeted stairs, "Raoul, come down here at once!" 

The Vicomte came in his own time, tucking a frilly hankerchief into his pocket. He found his brother pacing agitatedly, running fingers through his hair. Frowning, Raoul came down to join him.

"What's ever the matter? I thought you'd like it- " Further opinion was cut off as Philippe grabbed his collar. Not to be put off, Raoul beamed proudly into other's face. "Yes, _I _was quite taken with it myself. I never fancied myself as a decorator before, what do you think of the floral motif? And the teddy bears? Aren't they cute? I think- "

"What," Philippe said in a hoarse whisper, "have you done to our fine house?" He waved his arm wildly in direction of the kitchen. Raoul peered in: all pink and flowery, and fluffy. How cute and light and happy it was! 

"Yes," he proclaimed delightedly, delicately detaching himself from the other's grip, "I came down here yesterday, and my God, Philippe, I can't believe you let such a beautiful setting go to waste like that! All these drab colors, so rigid and uninspiring…no wonder you're so serious and moody -"

"Uninspiring?" his brother yelped, trying to control his temper, "Rigid? _Moody?_ Who do you think you're talking about? I –" He shut his eyes and started again. "Raoul," he said in patient tones, "I know you thought it would be a nice surprise, but whenever you think about re-decorating something, such as the house, I think you should talk to me first."

"- And you've been so uptight lately," the Vicomte prattled on, oblivious, "I thought a change of scenery was just what you needed. Seeing your face, I think it worked quite well. Come, brother, wait till you've tasted what I've cooked for us…" So saying, Raoul dragged his resigned elder brother away from the kitchen and into the dining room. 

Philippe took his usual seat at the head of the table, slumped in his chair and put his head in his hands. Raoul perkily adjusted his lacy napkin, took his spoon and tapped his glass. Philippe winced behind his fingers: the last time Raoul did that, he had not only broken the expensive glass but the sugar-bowl as well. 

"Breakfast is now to be served," the young Vicomte announced, "Jacques, go and fetch the eggs, will you?" The butler glided away. 

"I do think you'll find them a bit crispier then usual," Raoul added to Philippe, leaning over to the side, "but I think texture's irrelevant, it's the thought that counts." 

The Comte didn't bother to ask how his brother had thought of this piece of somewhat warped logic. Also, he didn't want to know. 

"Crispy" was a bit of an understatement. "Overcooked charcoal bricks," was slightly more accurate. Raoul poked at his, a curious frown on his face. "Funny, they didn't look like that when I started."

"Really?" Philippe mumbled from behind his fingers. He saw the Vicomte looking dejected, and he sighed, got up and gave him a small hug. "Raoul, I couldn't care less on how well you cook. You're my brother, a de Chagny, and you're all that matters to me at the moment."

"Do you mean it?"

"Of course. Now…anything special you've planned for today?" He regretted saying the words the instant they left his mouth.

"Christine," his brother sighed, a moony look coming over his face, "I'd like to see her today. She said she had something special for me."

__

Naturally, Philippe thought dismally, _they can't tear themselves away from each other. A chorus girl, why of all things in heaven did Raoul have to fall for a chorus girl? _Though she had proved herself admirably in _Faust, _a splendid and charming Margarita, so all the papers claimed. Philippe sighed. "You love-sick pup, of course you can see her. As for me, I'm going to –"

"- Come with me!" his brother chirped, leaping up from his seat. "I'm not letting you out of my sight for an instant. Birthdays are family occasions! And perhaps you will see Sorelli." Ignoring Philippe's protests, he led him out of the dining room

* * *

The back rooms of the Paris Opera house were, as ever, in semi-chaos. Philippe and his brother had to be light on their feet to dodge the singers, ballerinas, stage-hands and practically the whole _corps de ballet _(For some reason, little Meg Giry had stuck her tongue out at Raoul as she passed him). Philippe raised a quizzical eyebrow and the Viscount shrugged. "Oh, you know how these dancers are: besides I told her I'd buy her a new pair of tights later."

The Comte stopped walking and Raoul nearly plowed into him. "And why, Raoul," he demanded, "would you want to put on a pair of girl's tights?"

"Who said anything about putting them on?" Raoul answered, a slight flush covering his delicate cheeks, "Christine wanted a new pair and I just wanted to compare sizes -they're almost the same height…" He trailed off lamely. 

"I'm beginning to worry about you now, dear younger brother. More then usual, I mean –"

The faint sound of singing cut them off. It was beautiful, and full of potential, the voice undoubtedly a young woman's. And then another voice, cultured and mellifluous, but masculine. The next instant Raoul was pelting down the corridor past the other dressing-rooms, ignoring his brother's shout. Philippe muttered a curse under his breath and gave pursuit.

Raoul burst through Christine's dressing room, surprising the two people inside, and in doing so tripped over the doorway and collided with a masked man: both ended up lying on top of each other on the floor. As you can see, subtlety is not Raoul's strong point.

"Raoul!" admonished Christine, her scales forgotten, "How many times do I have to say it: don't visit me when I'm having my lessons! And get off Erik at once!" 

The Vicomte didn't hear her. He was staring, horrified, at two yellow eyes in a porcelain-white mask. The eyes burned, and the man said, "Do as she says, young suitor, or I'll remove you by other means…" The eyes narrowed.

It was Philippe, as ever, who saved his brother's life by hauling him up and apologising courteously to both Christine and the Phantom. Raoul grabbed Philippe by the sleeve. "It's him!" he said passionately, pointing a well-manicured finger in Erik's direction, "The Phantom of the Opera! The Ghost I told you about! He wants to take Christine away from me!" He stuck his lip out.

"As if you're a better choice?" the Phantom sneered delicately, eyeing Raoul's teddy bear cufflinks. Philippe, for all his good-heartedness, could not suppress a snigger. 

"Don't laugh," Raoul whined, "they're classics." Christine laughed, came and put her arms around his neck. Philippe could almost hear Erik seething. 

"Raoul, why don't you go and open your birthday present? I left it in the only place where no one could touch it –Box 5. Hardly anyone goes in there."

"What?!" Erik yelped, whirling around in a swirl of cape, "That's _my_ Box! I don't lend it out to over-dressed fops like him –" 

"It was just for today…" But Raoul, puppy-like in his excitement, had dashed off. Christine sighed, and turned to Philippe. "I do love your brother, Comte de Chagny, but how can you live with him sometimes?" She pursed her lips.

"I wonder the same thing myself," the Comte replied resignedly. "I suppose _I'll_ go drag him out of that sodding Box now…you know what Raoul's like, he can mess up a funeral. Always says or does exactly the wrong thing… " 

Erik had gone as white as his mask at Philippe's words. "My Box!" he groaned, "Oh god, that fool will leave those blasted scented frilly hankerchiefs all around, I know it –" With surprising litheness he side-stepped them both. Pausing in the doorway, he remarked to Philippe, "By the way, _love_ your suit." A swirl of cape, and he was gone.

Philippe and Christine looked at each other. "I do wish," Philippe remarked drily, "I'd brought those chocolates with me." Leaving Christine he disappeared to prevent any destruction of the Paris Opera House by his over-excited brother.

***

A/N: I know! I know! It's too short! But I have to stop as it is right now 3:00 in the morning and I have a Classics essay due tomorrow…again, sorry for the somewhat lameness of this chapter, but bits of it were good, right? Soon I'll learn to write better phanfics. Next: we witness the amusing side-effects of the chocolates filled with "sedatives." *snicker* Hopefully Raoul has not trashed up Erik's Box too much…we hope. 


	3. Of Managers and Mayhem

Disclaimer: Nope, still don't any of it..*ignores Philippe, who is handcuffed to Raikune's left wrist and is trying to get away* Haven't stolen any characters, nuh uh, not me…

***

"You bloody_ fop._"

Raoul froze in the act of pawing through the velvet curtains of Box 5 and stared, horrified, at the phantom-figure of Erik standing in the entrance. He tried to make light of the situation, smiling cheerfully at the overturned chairs.

"Ah, yes, well, Christine's a better gift-hider then I thought…still, messiness is a sign of creativity, right?"

A whistling noise and something tightened around the Vicomte's neck. Raoul gagged as he was roped in like a bull. He cringed as he gazed into the yellow eyes. 

"You ruined. My Box. You. Prancing. FOP!!"

Philippe heard this last bellowed word and sped up his pace.He appeared just in time to see Erik strangling Raoul with his Punjab lasso. Without any thought for his own safety he decided to intervene. This was not a good idea. When Christine arrived a few breathless moments later, all three men were rolling on the floor, knocking into things such as the chairs, curtains, walls, etc. Erik seemed to be trying to murder Raoul, Philippe trying to prevent him, and Raoul alternately scrabbling at Erik's mask and the lasso. Christine cocked her head to one side: hmm, three attractive men fighting on the floor, getting all dishevelled and sweaty, two of whom loved her…not bad. She pursed her lips and hid a smile. Not bad at all.

"Oh, boys?" she called out sweetly, "Boys?"

They stopped tussling and stared at her. Christine side-stepped around them and picked up a gift box from inside the small shelf in front. "The present's here." She waved it in front of their faces. 

All three got up slowly, Raoul massaging his neck with Philippe's hand on his shoulder. Trying to appear dignified, Erik adjusted his mask and cape, shooting a dark look to the Vicomte. "How could you not look there first, you prat?" Raoul shrugged and grinned in spite of the fact he narrowly escaped strangulation. "Can I open it now?"

"It's your birthday."

Raoul began to tear away the wrapping but Philippe stopped him. "Manners, brother. One always opens the card first." He pointed.

"Of course!" He opened the envelope and let out a squeal. "It has a _puppy_ on the front! How cute! Look, Philippe!"

"I see it, I see it…" Erik rolled his eyes and left the trio, instead beginning to clean up his Box. Raoul ignored him, removed the wrapping and…

…let out a squeal higher then the first one so it sounded suspiciously girl-like, and making all present wince and silently thank God that Raoul wasn't an opera singer. 

"A teddy bear! Wearing a sailor's uniform! Philippe, feel how fuzzy it is!" He shoved in his brother's face.

"Very nice, Raoul." Philippe petted it to humor him.

"I suppose Christine chose it because it's just like me," Raoul sighed, his blue eyes misting, "Cute, warm-hearted, a sailor, fuzzy…" Philippe blinked.

"Soft-headed, spineless, weak, IQ of stuffing…" Erik mumbled. He winced as Christine stepped on his foot. 

"A toast to us Chagnys!" Raoul cried, not hearing him, "Firmin and Andre have some champagne in their office, I stole some the last time I was here and blamed it on the Phantom…" Erik spluttered incoherently and Philippe moved to intervene, saying hastily, "An excellent idea, Raoul. After all they cannot afford to say no, not after our last donation of a considerable sum. I think it's high time they said thank you."

***

Philippe knocked on the managers' office door. Silence. He frowned and knocked again. "Are they in today?"

"Of course they are," Christine said airily, "they're trying to hide from Madame Giry. She accosts them in the corridor every time they step out, warning them of Erik." She giggled. 

Philippe knocked again. An irritated voice shouted, "If that's you, Vicomte, with all due respect I haven't got your hairbrush or your nail file so kindly leave!"

Pause. A second voice added, "And if you're Mm. Giry we are very aware of the presence of the Opera Ghost, thank you very much, we don't need any more reminders –"

"Pardon," Philippe called, "but it is only I, Comte Philippe de Chagny and my brother, accompanied by little Ms. Daaé –" He glanced around, surprised. Erik had vanished. "- and, ah, I was wondering if you would share a drink with us…"

Sounds of a lock being undone. The door opened a crack and Firmin peered at them. "Ah, my dear Comte, do come in…all of you come, quick." He ushered them in, glanced up and down the corridor, then slammed the door. 

"Thank God it's only you three," Firmin muttered, wiping his brow, "we've had nothing but complaints all day long from almost the entire staff of the Opera house- all about that blasted Ghost. Some of the tenors reckon he's stealing toilet paper, La Carlotta claims one of her prize dresses has been stolen –" here Raoul began to whistle while looking at the ceiling, "- and they all crowd in here shouting and it's only now we've got rid of them!" 

"A drink," André mumbled, "that's what we all need- a drink."

"You've read my mind," Philippe replied, smiling, "We actually stopped by here for some celebratory champagne…"

"Ah, of course! Our best wishes on this special occasion…" He shook Philippe's hand vigorously. Firmin popped the cork and poured the bubbling liquid into five flute glasses he'd gotten from the cupboard. 

"A toast, then," he declared, "To our finest patrons of the Opera House, the Chagnys, one of France's oldest and most respected noble families!"

"Hear, hear!" Christine added, clinking her glass with Raoul. They had no sooner downed their first glass when there was a brisk knocking at the door. André set his teeth. "What!" he barked.

"Lachenel, sir, the stud-groom," came a stiff voice. "There's a problem."

"What? With the horses?"

Pause. "No…I mean to say, not exactly. It's better if I come in, I think."

"Oh, very well," Firmin said disgustedly, and he opened the door. Lachenel strode in, carrying his riding-whip. He tipped his head at the Comte and Vicomte, then turned to face the managers. Something strange was going on with his face. On closer inspection he appeared to be trying not too laugh, and Lachenel was usually a dry and sarcastic man. 

"Perhaps, M. Firmin, M. André," he said delicately, "it would be better if you sent your guests away…as this concerns both of you on a rather personal level." And he smacked his right boot with his riding-whip, as if emphasising the point. 

"Nonsense, man. If there's something we should know about, say it. No beating around the bush."

The stud-groom paused. "I don't think –"

"We don't pay you to think, we pay you to manage the stables," Firmin snapped, "Say what it is and then leave, and we'll deal with it later."

"Very well." Lachenel flicked his whip. "Two photographs were found by one of my stablemen. One shows both of you naked wearing party-hats next to César, who is wearing socks. The other shows you both naked riding him around, except that César is wearing a party-hat as well…" He thought for a minute, then added drily, "To judge from the photographs, both of you seem to be enjoying it immensely." With a final flourish, he withdrew from behind his back two black-and-white photos and scattered them on the managers' desk. Firmin snatched them and held them trembling in his hands, his face getting redder and redder.

"When did you find these?" André said weakly.

"Just now." 

"Who…who took…"

"I think that's quite obvious." Lachenel jabbed the photos with his whip. "See those initials on the bottom?"

__

"O..G.," Firmin ground out, beginning to foam at the mouth. 

"May I ask how drunk you where when these were taken, gentlemen?"

"No, you may not!" Firmin roared, clawing at the photos in his hands, "and you'll keep quiet about this, and so will your staff, or by God I'll have the entire stable sacked!"

Lachenel dipped his head again, and smacked his boot with his whip. 

"But this was months ago," André hissed to Firmin, "Perhaps the stableman only chose to disclose these now…if this gets out in Paris newspapers our careers are finished…"

"Show us the man who found these," Firmin commanded Lachenel, having reduced the photos to little pieces, "and we'll soon sort this out!" He turned to Philippe and the others. "Excuse us, won't you?"

"Of course," Philippe replied courteously. He was too polite too further embarrass the managers and he stood aside as both hurried out, with Lachenel in the lead. Once their footsteps faded everyone turned and looked at each other. Raoul wrinkled his nose. "Why was the horse wearing socks?" No one answered him.

"More champagne, I think," Philippe said mildly, breaking the silence. He lifted the bottle. "Please," Christine added, shuddering. She held out her glass. "I need to get those images out of my head." She sipped hers delicately. "I don't think I'll be able to sing after this."

"Have no fear, angel," came a new voice, "I am here." 

Erik strode in and helped himself to us a glass. He swilled the champagne around in his mouth and swallowed. "Not bad," he proclaimed, "for two men of their salary…"

"Where were you?" Christine asked. Erik smiled at her and pinged the flute glass. "Oh, just getting rid of those two idiots so I could have some of their champagne. Excellent photographs, don't you think? I'll use the extras for blackmail in the future." He gave an evil laugh.

Raoul blinked. "You've made copies?"

"Naturally, you twit…" His eyes lit up. "Oh, and Raoul," he added sleekly, "Philippe mentioned to me that someone gave you chocolates for your birthday…" 

Raoul beamed. "They're in my jacket. I decided to carry them everywhere in case I get lost in a desert with no food or water!"

"How admirable. As we're having champagne, why don't you have one?" 

"Good idea," Philippe added hastily and Erik's smile broadened. Raoul shrugged and laid the small box on the managers' desk and opened it. Inside a dozen chocolates lay gleaming, some covered with swirls and others with nuts. The Vicomte picked one up. "Does anyone else want one?"

"No!" Erik and Philippe and Christine shouted at the same time. Philippe corrected himself. "I mean…they're yours, so why not enjoy them all?"

Raoul grinned. "Ok!" 

All eyes watched him as he put the chocolate in his mouth. He chewed…swallowed…smiled. "These are really nice!" 

And with the same smile fixed on his face, he crashed to the floor. 

"Did I say sedatives?" Erik said innocently. "I meant heavy-dose tranquilizers." 

Philippe rushed to his brother's aid, horrified. He saw that Raoul was only unconscious, and breathed a sigh of relief. Christine however, was not pleased. "You promised you wouldn't hurt him!" she shouted, swiping at her tutor. Erik dodged behind the manager's desk, laughing. "He isn't hurt! Besides, my good friend the Daroga concocted those up…the Persians were master poisoners, you see –"

"YOU WHAT?" Philippe shouted, "ARE YOU TELLING ME YOU'VE POISONED MY ONLY BROTHER?!"

"No, but I was considering it –" He ducked a blow from Christine. "None of them are harmful! At least, that's what Daroga said. Actually, I'm not quite sure _what_ he put into half of them, but he did say some were tranquilizers." He started laughing again. 

The sound of Erik's laughter woke Raoul. The Vicomte blinked at his brother, then, as his eyes readjusted, they focused on Erik as the source of laughter. Only it was not Erik that Raoul saw. 

"Mr. Teddy?" he murmured dazedly, "Is that you?" Erik saw Raoul looking at him and his laughter died on his lips. Raoul got unsteadily to his feet and gave the Phantom a dopey smile, a crazed glint in his eye. 

"Mr. Teddy!" He opened his arms. "I want to hug and kiss you!" He started to walk forward, and Erik's yellow eyes widened in horror. Before anyone could stop him, he rushed forward, grabbed Erik and kissed him full on the lips… 

***

HAHAHA! This is so my best chapter yet! *pumps fist into air* Gasp! What will happen next? There are so many questions: Is poor Erik doomed to be glomped to death by our drugged-up fop? What exactly do the _other_ chocolates do? Why are Firmin and André such idiots? Why _is_ Raoul such a fop anyway? Sorry, that last one can't be answered.

I'll update this as soon as I can. Reviewers can check out my author page for news on exact dates if they want. Now click that li'l review button! ^_^ 

__


	4. Hello, MrTeddy

A/N: Thank you everyone for all of your reviews! You inspire me to no end! 

***

"AAAAAAAAAGGHH!!" 

Philippe grabbed Raoul and held him back as Erik scrabbled at the managers' desk for support. Upsetting papers and ink-pens, the musical genius finally fell back to the floor and lay there twitching spasmodically. 

"Oh well done!" Philippe shouted, still angry at Erik for giving Raoul the fake chocolates, "Bravo, monsieur, you've made my brother a delusional lunatic! I hope you can put him back!" He tightened his grip on Raoul, who was holding his arms outstretched towards Erik, crooning "Mr.Teddy, I love you…"

"How was I supposed to know?" Erik groaned, letting Christine help him to his feet. "I couldn't have known what the Persian put in those things! Besides, science states that for every action there must be an equal reversal reaction*. So one of those chocolates will make your precious brother…ah, _normal_, again." His piece said, the Phantom began gingerly feeling his lips, hoping Raoul hadn't left fop-cooties or something.

"Urgh…doesn't Raoul brush his teeth?" 

Philippe ignored him, and began trying to talk to his brother. "Raoul? Can you understand me? There's isn't any Mr.Teddy here…Raoul?" But the Vicomte was too far off the deep end. Christine found herself torn between concern for her childhood friend and laughing at the state he was in now. Trying not to smile too widely for it was clear that the elder Chagny was distressed about his brother's condition, she suggested, "Perhaps Erik's right. One of those chocolates must be able to put Raoul back in his right mind again." 

"If the man was ever in his right mind in the first place," Erik mumbled, and wilted slightly under Philippe's cold stare. The Comte, having fixed Erik with his icy gaze, said gravely, "You're going to take us to find this Persian fellow and have him tell us whatever chocolate has the antidote inside so my brother won't spend the rest of his days trying to court you (Erik flinched) and then we're going to throw the blasted things away. Understood?" Erik nodded resignedly.

"Right." Philippe tried to steer his brother out of the managers' office but Raoul strained himself towards Erik, whimpering, "Mr.Teddy has to come with us!" 

"Mr.Teddy _is_ coming with us," Philippe said soothingly and Erik glowered. The Comte smirked. "Lead the way, Mr.Teddy." Erik curled his lip and swept past the Chagnys, leading them all into the more unknown recesses of the Opera House, unknown to all except for the architect...and a select few. The Phantom made no sound, walking light-footed through these dark passages, silent as smoke. Up and down they went, up staircases and through corridors Philippe had never seen before. At last Erik stopped in front of a door, and pulled an ornate key out from the folds of his clothes. Turning the lock silently, he opened it, and beckoned them in.

They were standing in a large, dimly lit apartment. Philippe cast his eyes over the faded furnishings and was about to ask where they were when Erik shushed him and began to prowl, cat-like, around the large space. The Phantom felt slightly uneasy: he could sense another presence in this room. Years of living in the shadows had co-ordinated his senses, and he could definitely hear the sound of soft breathing coming from his left. And, then, a low laugh.

Erik spun towards the direction of the sound, Punjab lasso held expertly in his grip. More laughter.

"Do you really mean to harm me, Opera Ghost?" 

A tall man detached himself from the shadows of the far wall. Philippe's eyes narrowed warily, but he had a feeling he knew this newcomer. A candle was lit, its glow illuminating the man's face and Philippe could see the stranger clearly.

His skin was polished ebony, so black and smooth it seemed the man had been sculpted from that rock, and set in the face were eyes of beautiful, pale jade. He wore an astrakhan cap and when he smiled, as he was doing now, his white teeth and luminous eyes were all that could be seen. Overall, this made him appear like the Cheshire cat. 

Erik lowered the lasso. "Really, Daroga, must you lurk about in the shadows like that?"

The tall man's teeth glinted. "That's amusing coming from _you."_ His voice was deep and pleasant.

The Phantom jabbed his finger at his friend. "You think you're so funny –"

"The Persian," Philippe murmured, remembering the night he first met the man, "You know Erik?"

"We have a history. But please, call me Nadir." 

"As you wish, Nadir," Philippe said politely, " As you can see, my brother is in a bit of a state."

"Ate the orange cream, did he?" The Persian and Erik sniggered. Philippe forced himself to smile. "Yes, haha and so on. But I would appreciate it if he was back to normal if that's not too much to ask…"

"I'm afraid I can't do that," Nadir said simply.

"Why not?" A light came on in Philippe's head. "You have no idea which one can put him back, do you," the Comte said in a slow voice.

"Ah…no." 

Philippe closed his eyes. His patience was now close to breaking point. His blue eyes, rather cold to begin with, froze over. Erik and Nadir stopped sniggering. "Perhaps," the Persian suggested hurridly, seeing the aristocrat's expression, "Some trial and error experiments are in order?"

"D'you mean feeding him the chocolates one by one and seeing which one stops the effect?" 

"Yes, unless you've got a better idea."

"Shove the whole thing down the fop's throat," Erik suggested brightly, "they'll all cancel each other out and the worst the Vicomte will feel is an upset stomach." Christine glared at him.

"Just for that," Philippe said darkly, and released Raoul. They watched the Vicomte chase the Phantom around for a while before Erik, in desperation, promised that he wouldn't make any more smart remarks and that he was truly sorry and that it was actually he that broke the chandelier. 

***

"Well, this should be interesting." Philippe eyed the chocolate he'd selected to force-feed Raoul. He tried to cajole his brother into eating it.

"No!" Raoul screeched, "Mr.Teddy! _Mr.Teddy's the only one I trust!_ YOU'RE TRYING TO POISON ME! AAAAAAAAAH! MR.TEDDY HEEEEEEEELP!!"

__

"Shut up!" Erik shouted at Nadir, who had doubled over laughing at the sheer irony of the situation, "You're not helping!" He snarled angrily.

"Pardon me…Mr…Teddy…" Nadir's face was red but he stopped laughing. 

Silence. 

"BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!" 

The Persian managed to evade a kick from the furious Phantom. Even Christine was trying not to laugh. Seething, Erik snatched the chocolate from Philippe and stomped over to Raoul. "Eat it, you daft twit!" 

Raoul's blue eyes filled with tears. His lower lip began to tremble. Erik paled. "No…please don't…I didn't mean it!"

"Mr-(sniff)-Teddy…_doesn't…love me! Waaaah!" _

Erik ground his teeth together. If it were possible for smoke to seep out from behind his mask, there would be. But if anyone was a master of deception, it was he. Putting on his most soothing voice, Erik said, "Come on now, Raoul…eat the chocolate like a good man, Mr…" He swallowed hard. "…Teddy loves you really. I want you to eat the chocolate. Please." Nadir was now crying.

Raoul smiled through his tears. "I knew you did, Mr.Teddy. I'll eat it now." He opened his mouth, waiting. Erik looked revolted. 

"Do it," Philippe said, and Erik, shuddering, put the chocolate in Raoul's mouth with his gloved hand. Everyone waited. Raoul swallowed. Since Erik was still in front of him, the Phantom saw a blissful expression came over the Vicomte's face.

"Mama?" He held his arms. Erik looked ready to die on the spot. Philippe and Christine winced. And Nadir…started sobbing with laughter.

"Another one!" The Phantom snapped, and chose another chocolate at random. He stuffed it into Raoul's mouth, grimacing at the drool on his gloves. Then he hastily moved out of Raoul's line of vision. The younger Chagny ate this chocolate, making small fussing noises.

"Quack?"

"Next!"

This time it was Philippe who forced the chocolate down Raoul's throat. His brother tried to bite him several times but stopped as the sweet took effect. A strange look came over the Vicomte's face. He slowly looked around at them all. Christine saw his face and almost gasped. She recognized that expression: a mixture of love and pain, and the eyes that shone with terrible intelligence. 

"What are you doing here?" 

Even Raoul's voice had changed, it seemed deeper somehow, more mature, dark and seductive, mellifluous…

"Answer me!" 

Then Raoul's eyes fell upon Erik and he gasped. "You!" he snarled, "Imposter! How dare you mock me…"

Erik's yellow eyes narrowed. "Me, an imposter? Monsieur le Vicomte, it was you who ruined all of my plans…who do think you are?"

Raoul drew himself up. "I am no Vicomte! I am the Phantom of the Opera!" 

Philippe's jaw dropped.

***

*or some science law thingy. I really don't care.

A/N: Yes! It's short! STOP PRESSURIZING ME AAAAAAAHH!! I have coursework to do and more importantly, fics to finish on fp.com. And I'm a lazy-arse too so there. Yes I will update. Whatever you want…within reason. ^.^

Erik: You crazy authoress! How could you insult me like that!

Raikune: I thought it was funny. *sniggers*

Erik: Grrrr..

Raikune: People are actually reading this! It proves that everyone loves you *low whisper* and Philippe!

Erik: *sulkily* No one loves me. You're wrong.

Raikune: *points* What's that then?

**Ground begins to shake**

Erik: Eh?

**Masses of Phan-girls appear over the horizon**

Random Phan-girl: There he is, ladies!

Phan-girls: EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!

Erik: 0.o

Raikune: Ha-ha! Stampede! *has crazy glint in her eye* 

**Erik begins to run, pursued by Raikune and a horde of screaming girls**

Erik: Help! I'm being attacked by rabid Phan-girls! 

Raikune: *snags his cape in a death-grip* Review, people! ^_^

**They disappear into the distance**


	5. Swinging from the Chandelier

A/N: If no one's reading this anymore I'm not totally surprised: it's all my fault for not updating for 3 months 0.0; But there were some who wanted me to try and continue it and I have done just that. Thanks to those who have been patient and those who weren't ^.^ 

***

"You are not the Phantom of the Opera!" Erik shouted. "I am!" 

"I beg to differ, Monsieur!" Raoul stared down his nose at Erik. The Vicomte touched his face suddenly…and realized that something was missing. "My mask!" he screeched, dropping to his knees, hands over his face, "Curse you, you've taken my mask!" 

"I," Erik hissed, "have never been so mocked in my entire life!" He spun around as someone sniggered. Nadir blinked innocently but the Phantom wasn't fooled.

"You!" he roared, pointing his finger at the Persian, "This is all your fault! You and your trick chocolates! I spared your life! And this is how you repay me?" 

Before the Persian could open his mouth to make excuses, Erik seized the box of chocolates and began to chase him around the apartment. 

"I'm going to make you eat every single one of these! I'll stuff them down your throat myself! See how you like it!" 

"But think about the benefits!" Nadir shouted, putting his hand up at the level of his eyes, "Raoul's not a fop anymore! He's _you! _He's charming and articulate -"

__

"Benefits? My persona in his body is a bloody _abomination, _you imbecile! I won't have _me_ in _him!_ That is perverse beyond all reason and it's because of you!"

"May I say something?" Raoul began testily but the Phantom cut him off. "NO, you may not! You'll keep quiet and not say a single word until I've sorted this out!"

Christine was thoughtful. She did love Raoul…he was kind and tender, if a bit innocent and foppish…but she loved Erik as well, accomplished as he was. She loved his voice, his music, his devotion to her. And she pitied the man, for what the world had done to him, it had embittered him, true enough, but she knew deep down his heart was still good. 

And now it was Erik in Raoul's body…she grinned. 

"I rather like him this way," she offered innocently. Erik stopped chasing Nadir and ran over to her. "You can't mean that!"

"Well…" 

"It's disgusting! I mean…well, look!" He gestured violently over to Raoul, who surveying his cufflinks with some distaste. 

"But it _is_ an improvement…on what he was like before, isn't it?"

"Yeees…in a sickening, twisted sort of way..."

"Are you going to give me back my mask back or not?" came Raoul's testy voice. The Vicomte folded his arms across his chest.

Erik gave him a black look. He stomped over to Raoul and grabbed him by the lapels. "Listen to me, you delusional drugged-up fop! There is only ONE Erik! Only ONE Phantom of the Opera! And that is me! See this?" He touched his mask. "And this?" 

He trailed a finger over the deformed skin around the edge of his cheek. "This pain is mine, and mine alone! Look into a mirror, boy, and you will find you have no need for a mask!" He glared into Raoul's blue eyes. 

As for Philippe, he knew what he wanted: his brother back. Yes, Raoul could be annoying and whiny and stupid and generally he made Philippe feel like he wanted to hug and strangle him at the same time…but he was family and the Comte loved him. Teddy-bear cufflinks and all. 

Raoul's haughty voice snapped the Count from his thoughts.

"I don't know what kind of game you're playing, Monsieur, but it isn't funny! If you won't give me back my mask I'll just go back to my lair and stay there! Hmmph!" 

"You won't!" Erik shouted, "That's MY house, not yours! Stay away!"

"I'm the Phantom of the Opera, this is my Opera House and I'll do what I please!" Raoul announced grandly. Erik stared at him, fists clenching, yellow eyes aflame. Raoul completely missed the danger signs, and continued: "And if you'll excuse me, there's a new chandelier that needs my attention. Goodbye!" He darted away, so fast that no one had time to blink. 

Silence for two seconds. Then:

"COME BACK HERE YOU MISERABLE PUPPY OF A FOP!!" 

Erik's outraged bellow rang through the room. He hurled himself in the direction Raoul had taken off to. Philippe, fearing for his brother's life, hurled himself in pursuit, snatching the box of chocolates Erik had dropped in his anger. Nadir and Christine, deciding not to miss any of the fun, ran after them. 

***

Raoul crept along the beams of the Opera House, gazing downwards. He licked his lips. What a magnificent chandelier! It glittered and shone, sparkling like a thousand diamonds, candles crowning its large circumference. Majestic and extravagant, the chandelier hung over the rows of seats, a queen residing over her Opera House. It was so pretty…he giggled. It simply _begged _to be dropped. A strange, mad desire to release it and send it plunging to the ground made his hands quiver. Face flushed with excitement, the Vicomte began to creep forward, little by little…almost to where this beauty hung…

__

"Stop right there."

Erik's icy voice made Raoul turn his head. The Phantom crouched among the footlights with lithe, familiar ease. The many candles shadowed his face and mask, and his expression was so terrifying that Raoul actually tensed. Erik uttered a low growl. "If you touch that chandelier, Monsieur le Vicomte, not even the trap-door shutters will find your remains!"

"Is that a threat, Messieur?" Raoul tried to keep his voice from shaking.

"Of course it's a threat, you upper-class twit!" Erik shouted. "Are you really so stupid?!"

Philippe, having just rushed onstage below, craned his head upwards and yelled, "Raoul, get down here at once! It's not safe up there, you might fall and break your neck!" He ran an agitated hand through his hair. "Oh, Raoul, will you stop being such a damn bloody fool and listen to me for once!!" 

"Raoul?" Christine called, joining the Count onstage, "Raoul, dear, come down from there and leave the chandelier alone!"

"I don't know who this Raoul is that you're all babbling on about!" Raoul called back, "but get off my stage –you'll dirty it or something."

Philippe swore colourfully in French. "I'm your brother, for God sakes!" 

"My what? I can't hear you!"

And before Erik could stop him, the Vicomte had made a clumsy leap onto the chandelier.

Philippe almost had a heart attack. Christine screamed. Erik screamed too, but for a different reason. Nadir, having just recently arrived, was thinking of an alibi he could have in case the managers showed up, which was the last thing that they needed, really. The chandelier swayed slightly as Raoul clung to the chain, dislodging a couple of candles as he tried to find some footing. They fell to the stage and seats below like rockets.

The Comte grabbed Christine out of the way of a falling candle but payed for his heroic action when it clonked him on the side of the head instead. He staggered, hearing Erik screech, "Stop it! Stop it! You're ruining my chandelier!" 

"Mine!" Raoul shouted back. He examined the hook on the ceiling and frowned. Clearly, he had not thought this out.

"I say, Philippe, or whoever you are," he piped, "have you got some sort of…er...tool I could borrow?"

Philippe, leaning on Nadir, was temporarily too dazed to reply. Chandeliers have large, heavy candles. 

"Stupid, mewling little milksop!" Erik hissed in rage. "If you won't get off my chandelier I will make you!" And he leapt. 

Raoul shrieked as the massive, glittering mass creaked and groaned, tilting and swaying. Large as it was, it wouldn't be able to hold the weight of two men for long. Erik balanced skillfully, all the time his yellow eyes searing holes into the Vicomte. 

"OFF!" he roared. "Or I shall push you off!"

"Shan't!" Raoul squeaked, gripping the chain, "I don't know how to get off, and anyway, I want to drop it!"

"Erik?" Nadir called nervously, "Erik? I think there's someone coming…" 

"To hell with them!" Erik managed to grab Raoul by the collar, and he dragged the quaking fop towards his face, snarling. Raoul blinked…his expression changed…and once he focused on Erik he shrieked. The odd chocolate's effects had worn off by itself. And at that moment, there was a creak and the chandelier dropped two feet. Raoul almost wet himself and clung to nearest available solid purchase: namely, Erik.

Here it was that Rémy, the private secretary, entered the scene. He'd had another argument with Gabriel the chorus-master and so was in a sullen mood. Walking along the stalls he glanced up sharply at Christine's scream of fright. The secretary's mouth dropped open.

He saw what looked like the Vicomte de Chagny clutching a caped masked man, both clinging to the perilously swinging chandelier, which was missing a few candles, and, in Rémy's opinion, looked quite ready to drop at any moment. He stiffened.

"No no no!" he shouted irritably, flapping his arms as he strode over to the stage. "I don't care what position you are within the Opera's patronage, no one is allowed to climb on the chandelier! The blasted thing's damn new as well!"

"Help!" Raoul wailed. "I can't get down!"

"Well, how did you get on, M. le Vicomte?"

"I jumped!"

"Ah." Rémy looked lost for words. "…Why??"

"Because," Nadir put in helpfully, "he'd eaten a chocolate which contained a potent mixture of chemicals that overrode his brain and so made him believe that he was the Opera Ghost." 

"Thank you," the secretary said dryly. He peered at Philippe. "Monsieur le Comte? I would advise you to remove your brother from the chandelier as soon as possible…and then perhaps go to bed, sir, you don't look at all well…"

"Go get the managers!" Philippe groaned, wincing as he felt his head. "Have them call the fire brigade or something…" 

"As long as they're not fooling around with our horses again," Rémy snickered. He made a quick exit from the stage.

~~

I am sorry again for the somewhat shortness of this chapter and for not updating in ages. I had chronic writer's block regarding this fic, then I thought of how funny it would be to have both Erik and Raoul on the chandelier…and there you have it. A special thanks to those phans who did read this and kept begging me to update, and for those who actually contacted me online to tell me how much they loved my other stuff. We had very interesting conversations regarding a certain wet Phantom ^_^ Thank you everyone and please R&R! 

Note: I will complete this fic as it is my first phanfic and therefore, um, kinda special to me. So from now on I will update regularly \m/(^_^)\m/ Yay! *does happy dance*


	6. The Fat Lady Sings

A/N: Yes I am slow to update. winces I'm losing my touch. I have no idea whether this is funny or not (maybe: not) but it does give you more ideas on what Philippe has to put up from Raoul as his brother. I kinda feel sorry for him. 

Rémy strode hurridly along a corridor to the managers' office. Casting a quick look about, he could not help surpressing a snigger. Seeing the Vicomte hanging onto the chandelier was perhaps the most amusing thing he'd seen in ten years…_no,_ the secretary corrected himself, _that would be M. André and M. Firmin riding bareback on Cesar. Wearing party hats._

He burst into a fit of giggles, and crammed a fist into his mouth. He was acting unseemly for an employee of the Paris Opera House and he tried to stifle his mirth. If the managers heard him, they'd throw him out. The secretary collected himself, though he still wore a smile on his lips. Not even Gabriel could spoil his mood now…

Rémy paused outside the door, feeling deliciously smug. He'd like to see how they handled _this_ little catastrophe…Rémy cleared his throat, then knocked briskly on the door. He waited.

No reply.

Mon Dieu. They must think I am Madame Giry, the Ghost's blasted Box Keeper…he rapped sharply twice, three times. 

"Who is it?" came Andre's voice, sounding thick, "If it's Lachenel, we haven't touched your sodding horses!"

Rémy smothered his laughter. "Monsieur le Directeur, I have an urgent matter of which I am bound by duty to report –"

The manager's door opened. Rémy blinked. André stared back at him, his face flushed, his hair slightly tussled. A couple of buttons of his shirt were undone.

My God, the man looks as if he's just- Then Rémy saw Firmin just over Andre's left shoulder, hastily buttoning his shirt.

Ah.

With a poker face Rémy continued, "I am sorry to disturb you from your pressing business, but about the chandelier…" His lips twitched.

Firmin appeared, adjusting his collar, trying to look normal and failing. "Well, what about it? Not the Opera Ghost, I hope?"

"Well, now that you mention it…" Rémy began, before a piercing screech assaulted their ears. Firmin cringed. 

"Carlotta."

The managers sped to the scene with Rémy trailing behind, trying not to smile too widely. André leaped back, colliding with Firmin as he caught sight of the chandelier.

"Good Lord!" he shrieked.

Carlotta rushed over to them, dragging Piangi behind her like a terrier. "Thees ees too much! I come 'ere to practice my solo in 'Annibal…to perfect my art…and vat do I see? Two strange men dangling from ze chandelier! Vun of 'om is zis Opera Ghost! I 'ave 'ad eenough! I resign!"

Firmin ignored her: he was dancing around on the stage, having an apoplectic fit. His veins stood out on his forehead. "Nooo!" he screamed, pointing a trembling finger at Erik, "Don't you dare touch that chandelier! It cost us 25,000 francs!" He looked quite unhinged.

"Oh do shut up!" Erik shouted back, "If you want someone to blame, it's him!" He pushed Raoul away from him. More candles fell. André jumped away as one landed at his feet. There was a loud creak and the chandelier dropped another foot. Firmin and André clutched at each other. 

"It's over!" André wailed tearfully, "It'll drop and it will be the end! Think of the headlines, Firmin!"

"I know!" Firmin shouted, "'Second chandelier disaster! Two-hundred kilos on the heads of the Opera managers!'"

"'Opera house managers caught molesting prized Profeta horse!'" Nadir giggled suddenly. The managers immediately stopped lamenting and gave him a scathing glare.

"How did you know about that!?" André roared. He sagged. "Oh, what's the use! I suppose the whole bloody Opera House knows!"

Carlotta was not a woman used to being ignored. She wasn't finished and was beginning to work herself into a fabulous temper tantrum.

"Diablo!" she shrieked at Erik, "Madman! It was you who wrote that silly Don Juan Triumphant! Ze annoying letters!"

Erik made a rude Spanish hand gesture. Carlotta purpled.

"Ubaldo! Did you see zat!" she yelled at Piangi, "Ze nerve! Ze insolence!" 

"I saw it, amore!" Piangi replied nervously, eyeing the swaying chandelier, "I saw it very clearly!"

Carlotta, having roasted the managers, swung towards Count Philippe as the second source of her troubles. "And you! Call yourself an areestocrat when you cannot even keep your silly brother under control!"

Philippe stiffened. "Madame, I resent that remark!" _Though it may well be true, _he thought glumly. 

The Count really had had enough. It was meant to be a quiet day (well, as quiet as it could get having Raoul as a brother) and he'd hoped to have at least one birthday pass without some monstrous havoc occurring as it did unfailingly every year. He was seriously wondering if the Chagny family was cursed. He gazed upward helplessly, watching his younger brother whom he'd sworn to protect cling to the chandelier as it creaked and swayed. 

"What are you smiling about!" he heard André shout at Rémy. "Stop grinning like a lunatic and call the fire brigade! Get those two idiots off of there!"

They found out, however, that there was no need. A monstrous groaning made them look upwards.

Pieces of ceiling plaster, paint (from the great fresco above) fluttered to the ground, falling like flakes of ash. As the counter-weights failed, the chandelier began to swing like a great pendulum, shedding candles and crystal ornaments as it went, which flew zinging down to the seats and stage below. Erik and Raoul screamed simultaneously and grabbed each other.

Philippe was an inch away from having a fatal stroke. He cried out in alarm as Raoul slipped, scrabbled. As the great chandelier finally gave way, both men leapt as far as they could, limbs flying.

There was a horrendous silence. There was a horrendous crash. 

The Comte would've probably fainted from shock if another large candle hadn't decided to ricochet off his head (again). And before he knew it, he was on the floor staring dizzily up at the ceiling, hearing the managers' cries of woe, and Raoul's voice shouting, "It's ok, Philippe! I landed on a fat lady!" 

"And I had the bad luck to land on a fat tenor!" came Erik's miserable groan.

Philippe turned his head. He saw the Spanish diva doing her best impression of a recently beached whale, with Raoul lying on top of her with a relieved grin on his face. That is, before he looked down, shrieked, and tried to back-pedal off as fast as he could. La Carlotta uttered a magnificent scream as she took to be Raoul's attempts to get off her as some sort of sexual assault. Raoul was unceremoniously thrown off. Philippe closed his eyes, willing everything to go away. It didn't.

"You CAD!" he heard Carlotta scream anew, "Ubaldo!! Zis man attempted to ravage me!! I shall destroy him! I shall lodge a complaint!! I shall- "

"I shall never be never be the same again!" Erik moaned, dragging himself off Piangi. The rotund tenor was gaping like a fish. The managers were crying in each other's arms. Christine was helping Raoul, Nadir, laughing, was with Erik. 

Philippe laid his head back on the floor and shut his eyes. "Happy Birthday to me," he mumbled dismally. A shadow appeared over him. 

"Comte Philippe, to what bill do we owe this chandelier incident to?" came Rémy's voice. He bent downwards. Philippe cracked an eye open. "I'm expected to contact the person or persons involved on the behalf of the Opera House…" The secretary looked at him questioningly. 

"It's my birthday, dear fellow: all charges made to me." The pain in his head reached an aching crescendo not unlike Carlotta's singing.

"Very good, Monsieur." Rémy scribbled on a notepad, whistling cheerfully. The Count resisted the temptation to toss him into the orchestra pit. Eyes closed, he listened to the voices around him, growing faint.

"Where are my chocolates? You didn't eat them, did you?"

"If you mention those infernal sweets to me one more time, Monsieur le Vicomte, I shall hang you from the chandelier hook by your underwear and –stop laughing, Daroga! Or you'll be next!"

"Raoul, dear, I wouldn't eat anymore if I were you…" 

"I was only –"

"No no, Christine, do let him eat some if the boy wants too! With any luck one will be filled with cyanide: at least, that's what I'm hoping."

"Erik! Don't say things like that, even as a joke!"

"I'm not joking."

"Monsieur le Directeur, Comte Philippe de Chagny has agreed to pay for damages done to our new ex-chandelier. I'm quite sure that's what he meant, he seemed half-conscious at the time…"

"That leetle fool landed on me! Dios Mio! I am resigning from zees Opera House! Ze managers can have their little Daaé, I no longer care –"

"I say, where is Philippe? Oh look, he's napping…funny thing to do, really, onstage…do you think he's rehearsing for a part?"

"Raoul, do not talk to me. I hate you. "

"That's rather harsh. All I did was love Christine."

"…."

Philippe, mercifully, passed out.

A/N: Um..yup. If you didn't find this funny, I'm sorry. Also sorry for shortness. You can go back and look at chapter 3, that's rather amusing Still, reviews are appreciated, flames will be laughed at and fed to my pet Balrog. I have a pet Balrog. Be afraid. O.o 


	7. Monkey Madness

A/N: Well, I know I haven't been updating...my fault. For having writer's block and spending long frustrating hours trying to make something FUNNY. Grr. Anyway! Hope you're enjoying this Philippe phic as much as I am...do read on...

* * *

"Is he going to be ok?"  
  
"Well, I should think if the first thing he sees is you standing over him, he'll have a heart attack or possibly a stroke. It's your fault: you shouldn't have knocked all those candles down."  
  
"It was the chocolates! The ones that you gave me!"  
  
"The ones that NADIR gave me!"  
  
"Oh no, Erik, don't you drag me into this! You wanted me to make them!"  
  
"Well, I didn't know what sort of bloody ingredients you were going to put in, now did I?"  
  
"Hush, all of you. I think he's coming around."  
  
Philippe slowly opened his eyes, the babble of voices becoming clear. He saw Christine and Raoul leaning over him with concerned looks on their faces, Nadir at the side. Erik was standing away, distant, arms folded, scowling at Raoul. The Count felt dampness as his brow was mopped and his vision became less wobbly. A quick glance from his blue eyes told him he was NOT back at home and he sat up with a cry that brought back aching pain: he slid back down, eyes shut, hoping it was all a dream.  
  
Of course, it wasn't.  
  
He was in an unfamiliar bedroom on an unfamiliar bed, and as recent events flooded sickeningly into his head, realisation overcame him and he groaned loudly. Philippe clasped his face. "Raoul...teddy- bear...chocolates...phantom...chandelier...nooo!" The Count grimaced. Since he rarely showed outward emotion, this was another sign that his careful restraint was slipping.  
  
"That's right," he heard his brother pipe, "Rémy the Secretary told me you were going to pay for a new one! Do you think that's wise, Philippe? It would take a quarter of our estate..." Hearing Raoul say those words made the elder groan louder. No, this was no dream; it was a nightmare.  
  
"Don't talk, Raoul," came Erik's musical voice, "Just the sound of you makes him feel worse. Sort of like the same effect you have on me...I'm beginning to warm to Count Philippe..."  
  
"Monsieur le Comte?"  
  
Philippe cracked his fingers open. He saw Christine leaning over him, her gaze kind. The Count was surprised when she took his hand in her own: it was as fragrant and soft as a rose petal. Christine rubbed his hand reassuringly. "Don't worry, Monsieur, you're in Erik's house by the lake. Nadir carried you here while we were making our quick escape from the stage, before the managers noticed we were gone." She laughed. Philippe looked into her caring eyes and began to understand why his brother was so madly in love with her. Had he been younger, and living in another lifetime, he would've felt the same.  
  
"We needn't have worried," he heard Nadir remark, "they were too busy crying on each other's shoulders to notice much of anything."  
  
"Yes, and La Carlotta and her pet Piangi are a bit upset," Erik smirked, drawing his cape about him. "She thinks Raoul was trying to rape her or some nonsense..." he gagged suddenly. "Ugh! I shouldn't think about it!"  
  
Philippe pushed himself up onto his elbows, and gingerly felt the bandage on his head. He winced at the pain. "Don't touch it, Monsieur le Comte," Erik said smoothly, rolling the rest of the bandage roll up and putting it away. "You have a mild concussion, thanks to your brother," he added deliciously. Raoul gave Philippe his wide-eyed I'm-very-sorry look.  
  
"Anyway," Erik continued in a bored voice, "she's going to press charges against Raoul for sexual abuse..." he hid a snigger, "and the managers are furious about the chandelier and are insisting that you pay up rather soon." He picked delicately at his teeth.  
  
"You mean they insist we pay up rather soon," the Count said quietly. Erik twitched. His golden eyes shot towards Philippe's face. There was silence. Nadir was beginning to look nervous. Christine averted her eyes.  
  
"We?" Erik said delicately.  
  
"Yes, we." The Count gazed calmly into Erik's face. His cold blue eyes never swayed.  
  
"I'm afraid I misunderstand you." Though from his tone, Erik understood perfectly well.  
  
"You're paying for half the damages to the chandelier. You were the one who gave Raoul those chocolates, not to mention you were on the thing when it dropped."  
  
The Phantom said nothing, just stared at Philippe. Nadir broke in quickly, "It's only fair, Erik. You have more then enough money from your little monthly pay package from the managers..."  
  
"I'm aware," Erik snapped. He fixed Philippe with one of his terrifying stares. When the man did not blink, Erik began to laugh. He offered his hand. "It's a deal, Monsieur! I see you're not to be easily intimidated...what's a little money between friends?" They both shook on it. Philippe got up...he was a little dizzy, but felt well enough to pay the managers a visit. Nadir suggested they left at once, and they did.  
  
Aside from a few incidents on the lake...namely, Raoul dropping one of the oars in the water so that they spent 20 minutes paddling in circles trying to reach it, and Erik's sudden announcement that he feared his boat would break from their combined weight and deciding to lighten the load by jettisoning Raoul before Philippe could stop him, all went well. As Philippe and the others neared the managers' office, raised voices could be heard: Firmin and André were arguing as usual.  
  
"Scandalous! What would the papers think –"  
  
"Diva charges sexual assault against Opera House patron! Second chandelier in pieces! For God's sake! I tell you, André, I'm really not amused!"  
  
"Nor I! We're finished –unless we can sort this out quickly! Apparently the Comte de Chagny said he would pay for damages but there's also that charge against his brother...what WAS that young man doing on top of the chandelier?!"  
  
"Heaven knows! Rémy said...what did you say, Rémy? Something about an enchanted chocolate?"  
  
"Yes, Monsieur Firmin. The Persian told me the Vicomte had eaten a chocolate that made him believe that he was the Opera Ghost –"  
  
"Oh, really? The Persian told you that, eh? You want to believe a word that man says? And the Opera Ghost gave the Vicomte these chocolates as well, I suppose, did he?"  
  
"I don't know..."  
  
"Really, Rémy, you're useless! Spouting rubbish like that, people will think you mad!"  
  
"Yes, Monsieur. But..."  
  
"But what?"  
  
"We did see the Opera Ghost on the chandelier, sir. Saw him clear as day."  
  
"I don't know what I saw!"  
  
"But they disappeared afterwards! That little Daaé girl, the Persian, the Count and Viscount! Sounds like the work of the Phantom to me, M. Firmin..."  
  
"Be quiet! I don't want to hear that name mentioned again –" Phillippe opened the door, deciding he wouldn't bother to knock. Firmin and André leapt back when he appeared, and their eyes started from their heads when they saw Raoul, Christine, and Nadir follow. Erik, once again, had vanished.  
  
"Relax, Monsieurs," Philippe said dryly, "we haven't been magicked away by the Phantom. I came simply to talk about the cost of that chandelier."  
  
"That's 30,000 francs!" André pouted. "That includes restoration to the ceiling! That fresco was very old, you know!"  
  
"I will pay 15,000."  
  
"What?!" Firmin screeched, "Rémy told me you said that you would pay full cost!"  
  
"I am paying the other half," came Erik's voice. The managers grabbed at each other in fright when Erik walked in. The Phantom curled his lip at them. "Yes, it's me, the Opera Ghost! So what! I'm here to talk...business..." he said with a sardonic sneer. He waved an arm at Philippe. "The Count has agreed to pay half because it was his brother's fault the chandelier fell. I'm paying half...for other reasons."  
  
"Because you were on it," André said bluntly, clapping a hand over his mouth when Erik gave a glare that would've melted iron.  
  
"I wouldn't talk if I were you, Monsieur –"  
  
At this point the door was nearly blown off its hinges.  
  
Because Carlotta had just barrelled through it, of course.  
  
The Spanish diva swept herself up regally, ready to deliver her rehearsed resignation speech to the managers, before she caught sight of Erik and screamed. The managers cringed as one man, and Philippe and the others, (except for Erik), edged away from them.  
  
"I see how zis works now!" Carlotta fumed, clasping a red shawl about her shoulders. She pointed a finger at André. "Ze managerial staff ees making dealings with ze Opera Ghost! Ze chandelier eencident vas staged!"  
  
"Eeet was not," Erik mimicked, sneering, "Perhaps eet was because of your tre-mendous weight, weeth you thundering about on ze stage like vun of 'Annibal's elephants zat caused ze chandelier to break loose!"  
  
Philippe, quietly, put his head in his hands.  
  
Carlotta was speechless, but only for a split second.  
  
"You...you ANIMALE!" she screeched, going crimson, "You 'ave ze nerve to talk to me like zat –"  
  
"- Blah, blah, blah," intoned Erik, making even that monosyllabic dull word sound melodious because of his musical voice. After a second's consideration he thought so too, and began repeating it for his amusement: "Blah, blah, blah..."  
  
"Please, dear lady," Philippe said loudly and hurriedly, drowning out Erik's repeated blah-ing (and earning him a glare), "I understand why you wish to press charges but I assure you my brother meant no harm at all –"  
  
"In fact," Erik smoothly interrupted, his tone gone from mocking to courteous, a sly gleam in his eyes, "if you don't have press charges...a nice thank you present awaits you...Senora." He bowed.  
  
Carlotta was speechless for the second time. Then she gathered herself up. "And what," she said icily, "bribe do you expect me to take, Senor?"  
  
"Yes, what br- "Raoul began before Philippe discreetly elbowed him.  
  
"Not a bribe!" Erik said in shocked, scandalised tones, "Not for a diva of the highest regard, never! A gift, perhaps, a well-deserved reward for this Spanish nightingale...never a bribe!"  
  
Carlotta smoothed her dress and adjusted her shawl, glaring. In truth she was flattered. Erik's sincere, respectful, almost hypnotizing voice had flowed into her ears like some gentle rain. The Phantom could be very persuasive when he wanted to be.  
  
"We shall see," she replied archly.  
  
Erik smiled; one that Philippe didn't like. He said, "Raoul, be a gentleman and hand me the gift box we prepared for La Carlotta..."  
  
Raoul looked puzzled. "What gift box?"  
  
"The chocolates, you fool!" Erik hissed in his ear. "Give me them!"  
  
"But they're my birthday –"  
  
In two deft movements Erik had stomped on Raoul's foot and plucked the chocolates delicately out of his astonished hands. He presented them with exaggerated servitude to Carlotta. "A few are missing, dear lady, because we considered them inferior to your tastes..."  
  
Say what you will about the attitude of singers, no one can resist chocolate. Carlotta was no exception. Her eyes hovered greedily on the luxurious spread laid before her. The managers looked confused. Rémy, on the other hand, was looking excited.  
  
"Care for a taste, Senora?" Erik purred, ignoring Philippe's terrified look. The Count started to open his mouth but Nadir gave him the slightest of shaking of the head, smiling as if at a private joke. Philippe felt his jaw close. It seemed as if Erik had been planning this all along.  
  
Carlotta plucked a round chocolate with innocent white swirls of icing, and regarded it. She looked at Erik's face, but couldn't read much from it because of the mask. The Phantom kept his eyes carefully blank. Raoul looked puzzled. Christine and Nadir were attempting to disguise their laughter as coughs. Philippe looked like he had just been hit in the face with a fish.  
  
She popped the chocolate into her mouth.  
  
Erik smiled evilly.  
  
Philippe gaped as Carlotta suddenly leapt onto the manager's desk with large thud, scattering papers everywhere and frightening André and Firmin out of their wits. "Hoo hoo hoo ha ha!" she yelped, and began tossing their papers and pens about the room. Erik was leaning on Nadir, laughing. "She thinks she's a bloody monkey! Hahaha!"  
  
"What is this?!" André screeched, ducking as a paperweight sailed over his head. "Senora, please!"  
  
Erik, laughing madly, grabbed Christine and sprinted towards the door. There he stopped, threw a wad of franc notes at Firmin, then rushed out. Nadir ran after them. Philippe decided that this was a good course of action, and was about to run when some shrieks were heard and he turned to find Raoul fighting with Carlotta over the box of chocolates.  
  
"Mine!" Raoul shouted, pulling at them. Carlotta hooted and tugged back. Philippe gritted his teeth and ran over to Raoul. "Let them go, for god's sake! They've caused nothing but trouble!"  
  
"OW! She bit me!"  
  
Philippe dragged him away, then reached into his pocket, hurriedly counted 1500 francs, and slammed them on the desk, dodging Carlotta. "Your money, Monsieurs! Adieu!"  
  
Rushing down the corridor, pulling Raoul along, he chanced a look back. Rémy was behind a chair laughing his head off. Firmin and André were trying to resist Carlotta, who was trying to groom them for fleas. They'd turned a corner, when a perfumed hand reached out from a dressing room and yanked Philippe in by the collar. He stumbled over the doorway and righted himself against a wall...when he looked up, a pair of fine green eyes he recognized were staring back at him. Raoul was looking in from the doorway, puzzled.  
  
"Why hello, Comte Philippe de Chagny," Sorelli purred, moving her hand slowly down his chest. "How kind of you to come and visit me..." She laughed.  
  
Philippe gulped.

* * *

A/N: Well, I hope you liked. Is it me or is Phantom humour insanely hard to do? Please say it's not just me. Also, Philippe phics seem to be in minority around here...I personally can't see how you can read the description of him in Leroux and not fall madly in love with him, but oh well...he's an accquired taste. smirk . Please please review! 


	8. Prisoner of the Rats!

Chapter 8 – A Brother's Love

Raikune: I'm ba-aaack, from Venice! [drags a kidnapped lithe, lean, hot young Italian gondolier named Gianni behind her, he still has his hat and everything][is grinning widely]

Gianni: [says something rude in Italian]

Raikune: [ignores this] I'm adding him to my male harem, along with Erik and Philippe and all my other pet men. Yes, I am disturbed...

Gianni: o.o Tu sei pazzo! [sulks]

Raikune: [grins like a loon] I know.

Gianni: ...Molto pazzo.

Raikune: [digs him with her elbow] And now, let all manner of things begin...

* * *

"B-bonjour, Sorelli," the Count stuttered in a higher voice then usual. He flinched as Sorelli began fingering his collar in a medative way.

"You haven't been to see me in ages," Sorelli purred, working a slender finger under Philippe's collar. He jerked as she touched his skin. "Why, on the last performance you didn't drop by my dressing room as you usually do..."

"I-I was busy that night." Philippe looked around wildly for a way to escape. Raoul wasn't being helpful by snickering at him from the hallway. Philippe glared at him. The Viscount interpreted this in the wrong way, thinking that his brother wanted to be left alone in privacy with Sorelli, and gave him a sly wink before strolling away, whistling, to look for Christine. Philippe almost shouted after him but the dancer regained his attention.

"Busy? Oh, but surely you have time to see me, after rehearsal?" Sorelli smiled at him. Philippe felt himself break out in a sweat. Their little relationship had been over for some time and he couldn't think of what she was doing now.

"I don't know," he answered weakly, "Your rehearsal schedule shifts so often..."

"I'm sure we can work something out..." She fingered his collar some more. A flirtatious light came into her green eyes. "You look ever so handsome, M. le Comte, in this suit...is it a gift?"

"Why, y-yes..."

"From a lady?" She gave him a little wink.

"No..."

"Why, you even have male admirers now?" Sorelli giggled.

"What...? No! No...this is from...an acquaintance..."

"Of course." Sorelli moved her hand from the collar to his top buttons. "I understand if you don't want to tell me about them...but, really, I never figured you for a man that had a taste for men." She giggled again. Philippe felt himself go red. "No! Nothing like that!"

"It is really you...very becoming." Sorelli gave him a slow once-over. Philippe was sweating like mad and his head was beginning to ache from nervousness. He could smell her perfume, a lavender scent she always wore; that he liked, and had insisted on her wearing every time they met. He looked into her eyes again and remembered how fine they were...and he yelped as she flicked his top shirt button open.

"Sorelli! Really, I-I..."

"My dear Count, you look so tense! And you're flushed." Sorelli laughed. "I'm not going to bite, Philippe." She slid another finger inside his collar. It was soft and cool. Philippe squeaked.

"I really must be going..."

"Oh, but you just got here!" Sorelli pouted. Philippe decided not to point out that she had dragged him in. He wondered where Raoul was and decided that if he found him again he would give him a thick ear.

A sharp twinge came from his head and he winced. Sorelli moved her gaze upwards and blinked in surprise.

"Why, you're injured, Philippe! Poor thing! Come and sit down."

"No thank you...agh!" He was pushed onto her little couch. Sorelli put a shapely hand against his chest and shoved him so was lying flat. "There, rest...let me look at this little war-wound of yours...maybe there's something I can do." She smiled warmly.

"It's fine. Really. Sorelli -"

"Shhhh." She flicked another button open. "You need to relax."

"I am relaxed." He yelped as she reached inside his shirt. "I also think you need a massage..."

Philippe made an odd noise. "No...please..."

"You act like I'm going to harm you!" Sorelli laughed, amused. She leaned forward so she was an inch away from his nose, from his blue eyes. Philippe almost stopped breathing. Her soft lavender scent swirled about his head, and her skin shone rosy in the lamplight. And her green eyes...he loved the female eyes. He considered them more beautiful then a face.

"You know I would never hurt you, Philippe."

"Yarghh." His throat had seized up.

She trailed a finger over his collarbone. "My grandmother always said that a massage could alleviate any pain..."

Philippe swallowed. "I...don't doubt that...but...I must be go-iiing..." he squeaked as Sorelli trailed her hand lower down his chest.

"Why, you're trembling!" The dancer giggled.

The Comte yelped and wormed out from under her grip, staggering to his feet. He leant against the doorframe, muttering excuses. "Prior engagement –problem at the estate- urgent- must leave..."

Sorelli ignored these, and with a sultry smile curled her fingers in his belt-loops and yanked him towards her. Then she kissed him, hungrily, passionately, fully on the lips, and the Count was so surprised he did nothing. She took his submissiveness to her advantage and shoved him against the wall, trailing her slender fingers down to his belt...

BANG.

The door swung open, Erik, Nadir, and Raoul sprawling on the floor, Erik pummelling Raoul in high agitation. "Get OFF, you stupid boy!"

"Owww! Stoppit!"

Nadir untangled himself from the other men, and edged around them carefully. He saw Philippe and Sorelli and blinked...before a slow grin crossed his face. He nudged Erik with a foot. "Messieurs? I think we're intruding on something..."

Erik shoved Raoul away from him and slid gracefully to his feet, with a knowing smirk. "Oh ho! I think you may be right, Daroga..."

Philippe managed to pry himself away from Sorelli. "You were not! This isn't what it seems...Sorelli, m'dame, please..."

Raoul tapped Philippe on the shoulder. "Philippe? We have a problem."

The Count swung around, his patience gone completely.

"A _problem? _Really? Already? In a day full of monumentous catastrophes, I hadn't noticed!"

Raoul blinked. "Yes..." Then he scowled. "You know _my _box of chocolates? Well – "

"How could I forget?" Philippe interrupted. Raoul continued. "Well, some of those little ballet girls have somehow got hold of it. _My_ chocolates. And they refuse to give it back. The managers have holed themselves up in their office again and decline to see anyone at all..."

"So?"

"Well, the girls might listen to you..." Raoul trailed off hopefully.

Philippe put his face very close to his brother's. "Raoul. Under no circumstances am I getting those damnable chocolates back for you. In fact, we're departing right as we speak. Let's go."

"No he's not!" Sorelli huffed, ignoring Erik and Nadir's sniggering, attaching onto Philippe's right arm with an iron grip. "Philippe's going to stay here with _me._ Messieurs, you so rudely interrupted a private moment: as much as I like having four men in my dressing room at once, you have to wait your turn. That includes you, M. Opera Ghost. Now –"

"He's not! He's making the ballet rats give me back my birthday present!"

"Go swat them with a broom or something: that always works."

"Philippe! Tell your lady friend that family's more important!"

"You're not his family," Erik interrupted, "Philippe hasn't any pink fop-blood in his veins."

"What!"

"You two couldn't be more less-alike if you tried."

Raoul blinked, hurt. "What are you talking about!"

"It's quite obvious," Erik said silkily, feeding off the younger Chagny's pain, "I'm no fan of your brother, but he's much more intelligent you are by a considerable degree. He has a nobleman's dress sense, unlike you. He's more tactful, perceptive, nor he is all delicately feminine. I wouldn't be surprised if you were some poor street urchin his father took pity on..."

Raoul's face, from when Erik began to speak, had gone steadily paler. His lip trembled.

"That's not true!" Philippe shouted angrily, rounding on Erik. "I couldn't care less how similar he is to me!"

"But," Erik purred, "It's all true, isn't it?"

"Raoul was not a street urchin!"

"But the rest?"

Philippe didn't say anything, he just glared. Raoul made an odd noise and ran out before Philippe could stop him. The Count rounded on Erik, eyes flashing.

"As usual, Monsieur, you've made things worse."

"I know," Erik said proudly. Philippe turned and stomped out of the dressing room: despite Sorelli's protests, he decided, if it really made Raoul so happy, he would get those blasted chocolates back.

After some vain searching, trying to find the lair of the ballet rats as it were, he heard a giggle. The Opera's back corridors were ill-lit, and he could see nothing. There was another giggle.

"Ooh, you're right, he IS handsome!" Girlish laughter erupted, from behind him.

The Count whirled around, his eyes falling upon three petite dancers crowded in the corridor. Two were giggling and blushing, one was smirking. The latter, of course, was Meg. She batted her dark eyelashes at him.

"Were you looking for something, M. le Comte?" she inquired innocently.

"As a matter of fact, mam'selles," Philippe began, to another chorus of giggles, "I was wondering if you saw any..._chocolates _lying around."

"Oh, those," piped a little voice, the speaker revealing herself to be Jammes, "We took –"Meg stomped on her foot and the girl yelped, blushing.

"Right," Philippe said calmly. He wondered how he should go about this: either tying them up or turning his charm on. He was itching for the former.

"We might have the chocolates," Meg replied innocently, "then again, we might not. It depends what you're willing to do, _Monsieur le Comte,_ to get them back..." she drew this last sentence out into a sly little laugh.

Philippe eyed the girls warily. He was about two feet taller then they were, on the other hand they could be amazing quick when needed, and he knew from experience that being kicked in the shins by them was not a pleasant experience. They also had the upper hand in that they knew the Opera House very well, and he did not. He didn't like the smug way they were watching him, beady-eyed, as if listening to his thoughts.

"What sort of demands did you have in mind?" he inquired stiffly, thinking it would be money.

They just giggled; a chilling sound, to his ears. Cold sweat broke out on the back of his neck.

"Nothing extravagant. Just...a kiss." An explosion of giggles at this statement.

Philippe blinked. Clearly, he hadn't heard right.

"Excuse me?" he said slowly.

"Oh Comte, will you listen!" Meg whined irritably, "I said a kiss...a kiss will cost you your foppy brother's chocolates."

"With who?" the Count said blankly.

"Me!" Meg chirped, blushing slightly. She thought a minute, then grinned. "And when I say kiss, I mean kisses, and when I mean me, I mean the whole _corps de ballet. _That's not so bad, is it?"

"You want me...to kiss all of you...once...for the chocolates," Philippe said hesitatingly, trying to comprehend what he'd heard. The girls nodded.

"On the lips?" he asked, hardly daring to hear the answer.

Jammes blinked her doe-eyes. "We never thought of that...what a good idea! You're much brighter then Raoul..."

"Wait till I tell Sorelli," Meg declared, "or the Paris newspapers: 'Count de Chagny kisses Meg Giry, dancer-soon-to-be-princess. Wedding to follow-' "

"No!" Philippe shouted, louder then he intended, "If the papers hear of this I'll be ruined! My whole family!"

"Better wet your lips then," Meg chirped, "After all, you're going to be kissing a lot of girls."

"This is blackmail!"

"I know."

"It's disgraceful!"

"Yup."

"You're children, for God's sakes! I'm not doing it!" He turned, to walk away from them, damn the chocolates...and found he was surrounded, both sides. Ballet girls had filled the corridor, out of the shadows, silent as mist. They clustered thickly together, slight, slender little girls of thirteen and up, looking harmless but watching him with terrible intent. There was, he thought grimly, something definitely rodent-like about them, no wonder they were called ballet rats.

They were all smirking.

"You can't run, Comte Philippe," came Meg's high voice. He turned, mouth dry. The little dancer was obviously leader of the pack. The girl snapped her fingers and another came forward with some rope.

"Tie his wrists," Meg ordered breezily, "with strong knots, but not too tight. That way he can't resist."

"I strongly object to this treatment," Philippe said quietly. Meg shrugged. "Object all you want: It's just a precaution. We knew you wouldn't willingly agree to do this- after all, you're a good-hearted man." She smiled, not her devilish grin, but a true one. Then she tested the knots. "But...we're not like you. So it has to be this way. Move forward." She gave him a light shove.

"Try to shout for help, we gag you. Try to run; we tie your legs and drag you. Try to harm us...well, it's not a good idea. Oui?"

"Yes," Philippe replied grimly. He couldn't believe he was being taken prisoner inside the Paris Opera House by a host of young girls.

Meg grinned. "Then forward march, Comte!"

They disappeared into the bowels of the Opera House.

* * *

Please accept my humblest apologies for not updating any of my phics for so long. That said, good news: almost done with the next chapter of TGWP! Yay! :D I do feel sorry for poor Philippe in this chappie...I am so cruel. But I lurve him all the same. Hope you will as well. Please review, and the authoress will gleefully write some more.

Fwee!


	9. It's Not Over Yet

A/N: What with temporarily banning me for posting script phics and real life suddenly catching up with me, I've found only little time for updating. This the result of weeks of re-writing and wondering 'Am I funny?' followed by 'Whoa, whaddaya mean "funny"? Funny like a clown? Do I amuse you?' and so on, Mob-style, till I started snickering and accidentally deleted half a page.

To read this phic you must love Philippe. Or be successfully converted after reading a few chapters of this and/or Tam Lynne's 'Philippe's Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad Day' which is extremely well-written, coherent, and funny, much more so then this. Thank you.

Usual warnings: Very OOC. Has little or no direction/plot. Random. Fop-bashing.

* * *

Raoul found Christine in her dressing room, brushing her hair in the mirror. He stood in the doorway for a moment, looking at her, before Christine noticed him and turned. 

"Oh hello, dear...I just needed to get away from all the excitement for a while." She laughed, then noticed the look on his face. "Raoul...what's wrong?"

Raoul flopped himself on a chair, his lip stuck out. "Erik doesn't like me."

Christine thought about this for a minute. She thought that saying, "Well, _duh," _was not the most sympathetic thing to say.

"Raoul," she said kindly, "Erik's _never _liked you. Because you're in love with me -"

"I thought he'd get over that!" Raoul burst out, looking melancholy. "I mean, I don't really like him either but at least I tried to get us to be at least cordial! I pop around to see him sometimes so he won't feel so lonely and bring him my favourite cheeses (1) to sample –"

"That's right, Erik told me about that," Christine replied, trying not to laugh at the memory of Erik desperately attempting to scrape gouda off his organ keys, "He was...rather upset about it. I don't think you should visit him at all..."

"That's what Philippe says," Raoul remarked, "but then again, he says a lot of things." He beamed happily, all previous unhappy thoughts vanishing in the pink clouds of foppy, blissful naivety that passed for his mind. He blinked. "I don't know where he is now...and I haven't given him his birthday present yet!"

After a minute, he looked under one of Christine's perfume bottles, to see if his brother was under there. Nope, he wasn't. Silly fop.

(A/N: I love fop-bashing. Can you tell?)

"Er...will you help me look for him?" Raoul grinned sheepishly.

Christine smiled at his expression. "Of course."

He took her hand eagerly and they disappeared into the hallways.

Philippe walked silently along the corridor, head down, thoughts gleaming and vanishing through his mind like quicksilver. Ballet rats surrounded him, front and back, in a solid mass. He had no idea they were so many of them. The dimly lit corridor echoed with their giggles and whispers, most behind his back. They'd taken so many turns he had no idea where he was.

"We've got our own little common room," Meg said brightly, poking him in the side. "There are so many unused, little-known rooms in this big Opera House, we decided we should have headquarters or something...ok, company halt!"

The girls stopped, looking expectant.

"Right," Meg announced bossily, "this, Monsieur le Comte, is the Point of No Return. Our common room is very near, and we're sworn oaths of secrecy not to divulge where it is, or show any outsiders its location. So: on your knees."

"Why?"

"No questions!"

"But –"

Meg sighed. "You force me take measures I don't want to take, Comte." She promptly kicked him in the shins. Philippe went down on his knees, cursing.

"Tut, tut. Such language for an aristocrat. I'll try and remember it." She giggled. "Ok, nighty-night!"

"What- mmmph!" A hand snaked around from behind, clamping a rag to his face. The Count had just enough time to register it was chloroform before the world dissolved into shades of gray, and finally, nothingness.

"Did we have to do that?" Jammes whined, looking down at Philippe's fallen form. "I mean, he's about six foot three. He's heavy."

"Stop complaining. We swore we would never show anyone where it is, the secret lair of the Ballet Rats!" Meg attempted an evil laugh, which, in all honesty, needed improving.

"Fine." Jammes peered at Philippe, poking him. "Gosh, he's really out."

"Yeah. Heehee...he looks cute, with his eyes closed like that."

Meg snapped her fingers. "Ok, girls, enough mooning! Help me drag him in."

In this deserted corridor, no one noticed a troop of girls struggling to drag a body through a door...

"Well, this has been wonderful day," Erik grumbled, stalking through the Opera's many corridors with Nadir in tow, "First, Christine's singing lesson is interrupted by that foppy little puppy. Then he wrecks my private Box- you know how I like to keep my Box neat and tidy!" He aimed a kick at the shadows.

Nadir decided not to comment. Sometimes, when Erik was in his one of his moods, it was best not to say anything. He could've said 'Well, you did give him those chocolates on purpose,' but his brain voted on keeping all his limbs intact. Also, he had been the one who made them.

There was the soft sound of ballet shoes behind them.

"Monsieurs!" a female voice called from behind them, "Monsieurs!"

Erik turned, raising an eyebrow. La Sorelli bore down on them, fanning herself with a lady's fan. She patted her bun and glared at the Phantom, prodding him in the chest with her finger. Erik flinched.

"What have you done with my Philippe?" she uttered in a near-growl.

"I?" Erik straightened. "I've done nothing. He just rushed out of his own accord. Good day, madame." He then unwisely turned his back on La Sorelli, prima ballerina, armed with a fan.

WHACK!

"Ow!"

"Now you listen to me, M. le Opera Ghost," Sorelli stated, prodding Erik again, who was rubbing his head, "I know your comment about the Viscount made him dash off to find those chocolates again, so you can help me find him or...or else!"

Erik thought it was time to assert his authority as the Phantom of the Opera. "Or else _what?"_

He wilted slightly as Sorelli burned her green eyes into him. "See this fan? I will personally –"

"Ah. That _or else."_

"Yes indeed."

"Of course _we'll _help you," Erik said smoothly, his arm shooting out and gripping Nadir's sleeve as he tried to sidle away, "Whatever _we_ may do for a lady."

"Good. As you know, there's a little more chaos then usual in the Opera House right now...I just saw Carlotta steal some bananas from the kitchens, and I'm warning you, she has a deadly aim with a peel. Firmin and André have barricaded themselves in their office. Gabriel and Lachenel are arguing over the best way to clean up the chandelier, with Rémy trying to calm them down, and it might go all fisticuffs if Gabriel keeps shouting at Lachenel like that: you know how dangerous he is with that riding-whip." She nodded appreciatively as both men flinched.

"So...what's missing here, gentleman? Opera House in shambles, people shouting, stagehands hiding in the cellars..."

"No ballet rats around screaming and running everywhere," Erik said dryly.

"Exactly. It's that worrying. And Raoul did say that they were last seen with the chocolates...and I know where they are. They think they're secretive, but have you ever seen a subtle ballet rat?"

Nadir and Erik looked at each other.

"It's a highly dangerous mission, gentleman," Sorelli said in the tones of one who knows she'll get what she wants and is milking it up for what it's worth, "Two men and a lady against a ballet rat horde...of course, if the Phantom of the Opera is with us, it shouldn't be that hard..."

"That's right," Nadir spoke up brightly, "All the ballet rats live in mortal terror of him..."

"Why, they'll probably flee on sight!" Sorelli said happily.

"Excuse me –"Erik began, but was overrode.

"All he has to do is laugh that laugh of his and they'll go away."

"And I'll have my Philippe back with me," Sorelli sighed, her eyes dreamy.

"If I may –"

"Probably won't even have to flourish his lasso..."

"That's right. Of course, I'll make them sorry they ever crossed this prima ballerina!"

"_Excuse me," _Erik growled, making Nadir's smile disappear and Sorelli raise a bored eyebrow, "but may I have a say in this?"

Sorelli brushed a curl out of her face, tilted her head and pouted her lips, pretending to think.

"No."

And with that, she grabbed them both and frog-marched them in the direction of the cellars.

"...Nghh...."

"...Did he say something?"

"...Aaghll..."

"I think he's waking up."

"Me too."

"Me three."

"Hellooo? Comte Philippe?"

"Wha..."

"Ooh, he's awake! Kisses now!"

Philippe shook his head and looked around muzzily. There was definitely the Opera's whole orchestra going on inside his skull. His mouth felt dry and cottony. And he was still tied up.

Meg poked his sides. "Do you want me to splash water on you?"

"No!" Philippe sat up, head spinning.

Meg looked like she was seriously considering it, just to see what he would look like wet, then shrugged and set the glass down.

The Count ignored her for the moment, letting his eyes travel around the room. It might have been a storage room: props, sheets, mouldering costumes, furniture, a cracked mirror. What looked like a Venetian Carnaval mask lay on one corner, its wide grin made jagged from a crack sliding down the hooked nose. It leered at him with empty sockets and Philippe felt his pulse speed up.

"You're not listening to me!" Meg poked him. "I said, once you kiss all of us on the lips you're a free man, and you can go marry Sorelli or whatever...oh, and you can have your foppo brother's chocolates back too. They tasted quite nice..." She licked her lips. "Except that some had a funny chemical-y taste."

Philippe sat up, his fear cooling to be replaced by righteous anger.

"Untie me at once. I'm not going to play slave to your childish games!" He struggled against the ties on his wrists.

"Janette tied those quite tight!" Meg said cheerfully, barely hearing him.

"I demand that you let me go."

"Demand, huh?" Meg grinned. "Who do you think you are?....Oh yeah, you're a Count. Well, you're in our Opera house now, in the Ballet Rat lair, and what I say, goes."

"Organised ballet rats?" Philippe said sarcastically, "This is a surprise!" 

"Shush," Meg said cheerfully, "Now, tell me what you think of this name: Countess Meg Giry. Or, wait for it, The Comtessa Meg Giry nee dancer Meg Giry..."

"What??"

"Nothing. It was just a little fantasy of mine..." Meg sighed, then perked up. "Kissing time! Pucker up!"

"Kiss! Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!" the other ballet girls chanted, their voices echoing. "Kiss! Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!"

Philippe leaned his face back, terrified, as far as it would go, until he was lying down. Meg's face was coming nearer and nearer...

Their lips touched...

CRASH!

Sorelli, face flushed an inviting crimson, rolled into the room like an angry she-bear. Apparently, Sorelli had decided that most dangerous person in the Opera House was not Erik, but her. Especially after some had stolen her ex. She had her lady's fan in one hand, and set about swatting ballet girls right and left. They dove, squealing, out into the corridor.

"GET YOUR HANDS OFF MY _MAN!" _she shrieked, flailing with her fan. "You little RATS!"

Meg stood up, scowling at the fact that her special moment was interrupted. She stood her ground. "You can't have him all for yourself!"

Sorelli put the fan in her face. "I'm the prima ballerina here, little Mlle. Giry: if I want a man to myself, I shall!"

"Finders keepers!"

WHACK!

"WAAAAAH! THAT HURT!" Meg dived out, an enraged Sorelli on her tail. Sounds of massacre and shrill squeals echoed in the corridor.

And suddenly, Philippe was alone. Well, not quite.

A shadow loomed up and Erik stood in the middle of the room. He swept his golden eyes over the Count's helpless position and smirked. "She _is _quite a demon with a fan, isn't she?" He walked around Philippe. "And how did the patriarch of the de Chagny family manage to let himself fall under the little hands of the _corps de ballet?"_

"I'm not in the mood, M. Erik," Philippe snapped, trying to move his wrists. God, ballet rat fingers were all out of proportion to their strength...

Nadir stuck his head in. "Erik? Sorelli's committing infanticide, I'm pretty sure."

The Phantom waved a careless hand. "Who cares? I never liked the little sods anyway."

"Erik –"

"Oh, Daroga, she can't do much harm with a fan," Erik snapped, then rubbed his head. "...Go and calm her down, will you? The Comte and I...have much to discuss..."

Nadir nodded. Erik had that certain gleam in his eyes that made other people standing opposite suddenly want to be very, very far away. "Of course." The door shut.

Philippe struggled into a sitting position. Erik sat himself down on a crate and looked at his fingernails. "So, Comte. You come in here dragging your brother behind you like some small, excitable hurricane and in less then a few hours my chandelier is smashed, and Opera employees are running amok. Plus your dimwit brother thought I was his teddy bear. What do you have to say to that?"

"I've already paid for half the cost of the chandelier."

"Not the point." Erik tapped his mask. "I've been generous...I gave you that very tasteful suit, and you know the cost of good clothes in Paris. Yet you had to come here with Raoul and ruin everything..."

"_He _wanted to come and visit Christine," Philippe said icily. "I wasn't going to deny him his happiness."

The Phantom gazed at him for a moment. "No...you never do...do you?"

Pause.

"I never spoilt him. Raoul has character."

"Hah! And access to all your family's money."

"I can't help that."

Another pause.

Erik leaned forward. "I've personally had enough of this mayhem, Comte...mostly because it's not caused by me. I'll cut you a little deal. Leave now with the chocolates...and I'll make sure the managers never put your good name in the papers to be dragged through the mud. After all, I wouldn't want to lose the Opera's richest patrons and you'll not want your honour soiled. Yes?"

"Yes."

"Good man." Erik leaned back. "So...where are they?"

They looked around.

They looked back at each other.

Sorelli swanned in, beaming happily, fluttering her fan. Philippe was surprised it didn't have blood on it. Nadir followed cautiously behind her.

"So nice to be rid of them! Just you and me, Philippe...oh _you're_ still here, Phantom."

"Where are the chocolates?" Erik leapt to his feet. "Tell me where they are, woman!"

Somewhere, a clock ticked.

"Woman?" Sorelli repeated, clicking her tongue. Erik shied away as she raised the fan. "Er, no...I meant La Sorelli...don't you hit me!"

Sorelli paused, her arm raised. "Well, I don't know. Meg and her little horde have run off...shame, really, I was getting into my swing..."

Erik groaned. "I need those chocolates! And Comte, _you're_ to help me find them!"

Sorelli walked over to Philippe and yanked him up. "No he is _not! _Can't you see what you've done to the poor man? He's been through enough! You can sort out your own..." she blinked at Erik, "...diet problems..."

"La Sorelli," Philippe said heavily, "the sooner I find those chocolates, the sooner Raoul and I can leave...and not have my name mentioned in the papers about the chandelier incident. Please, Sorelli."

Sorelli looked into his blue eyes. "...Oh all _right. _But only because you asked. And also because he –" she waved her fan at Erik, who flinched, "– really needs to gain some weight. Ok?"

"Yes," Philippe replied gratefully, "I'll thank you later..."

"You will." Sorelli kissed him on the cheek, making him flush. "I'll make sure you don't forget."

Erik slipped behind them and withdrew something from an inner pocket. There was a gleam of metal, and Philippe's bonds slid to the floor. He rubbed his wrists, trying to coax circulation back.

The Phantom slipped his dagger away. "Shall we, Monsieur et Madame?"

Raoul and Christine wandered through the backrooms of the Opera, Raoul asking several people if they'd seen his brother. Most said no. The others said things along the lines of 'Why are you wearing teddy bear cufflinks?' which wasn't very helpful. Raoul leaned against a prop door dejectedly.

"He could be anywhere –agh!" The fake door swung in on his weight, making him crash into a hidden room. There was a sudden hubbub of voices that abruptly ceased.

The Viscount slowly lifted his head. There were tables, and figures at them, and at the side, a bar. Props were piled in corners, and masks hung from the wall. He got to his feet, pulling Christine protectively to his side.

"Er...we'll just... be leaving, then..."

"It's Vicomte Raoul de Chagny, isn't?" came a mild voice. "Weren't you on top of the chandelier?"

Raoul turned, meeting Rémy's gaze, who was standing a few feet from him, holding a wine bottle and a few glasses in his hands. He looked only slightly surprised. When you're the private secretary of the Paris Opera House, working for André and Firmin, you'd better be used to surprises.

"Yes." Raoul blinked, confused.

"What is this place?" Christine asked, running her eyes over the tables. She recognised many minor employees, as well as several dancers, actors, singers, administrative staff, and a few hunched shapes that might have been trap-door shutters. At the bar, the Ratcatcher was showing the bartender what you could do with a rat and a slice of lemon. (A/N: Don't ask.)

Rémy sighed. "You might guess, mam'selle: you've worked in this madhouse long enough. Sometimes you want somewhere private to get away from it all, yes?"

"I suppose so." Christine blinked, she was having a blonde moment. "Have you seen Philippe de Chagny, Rémy?"

"No..."

Raoul remembered what he forgot. "Have you seen my chocolates?" he asked brightly.

"What...? Oh, those. Yes, all too recently." Rémy turned and walked through some tables, Raoul tagging along after him with Christine.

"Company, gentleman," the secretary announced as he stopped at a low table in a corner, setting down his load. The men talking around it looked up.

"Good show, Rémy," Gabriel said amiably, reaching for a glass. "Sauvignon, anyone?"

But the Viscount saw what he'd been looking for all along, lying in the middle of the table amidst newspapers and cards: his chocolates!

He reached for them.

The air cracked.

THWACK!   
"Ow!" 

Raoul danced around, eyes bugging, wringing his smarting hand. It was like being rapped across the knuckles with a metal switch.

"What do you think you're doing, man?" Lachenel said coolly, withdrawing his whip. "Taking without asking politely? Tsk, tsk. The things they teach young aristocrats these days – "

"Nnngh! Those – are – my – chocolates - sir!" Raoul groaned, but politely.

"Don't see the de Chagny crest on them."

"No need for that, Lachenel, old boy," Gabriel mumbled, swilling his glass. "It's not like we want them..."

"We were walking along, minding our own business, when we were suddenly trampled by ballet rats," Rémy put in, "Little Meg Giry threw this in our direction...well, at my head."

"And I've heard stories about these chocolates: rumour spreads fast through the Opera." Lachenel the riding-master flicked his whip across his knee. "Dangerous. Very dangerous. Can't be had, letting them fall into – "He glanced at Raoul, "– such well-manicured hands."

There was a barely audible snicker from Gabriel.

"And –Gods, Rémy, I wanted vermouth, not wine!"

"Well, you said – "

"But they're _mine,"_ Raoul whined, forgetting that a coarse-haired horsewhip was a foot away from him, "they're my birthday present. Christine, tell them!"

"Um," Christine said nervously as Lachenel steepled his fingers, "they were a present, Monsieurs...and, um...you didn't eat any, did you?"

"Yes," Gabriel said, sniffing his glass, "there weren't a lot left. I ate the hazelnut fudge and -"

"And wasn't it funny?" Lachenel smirked. "Gabriel thought he was a small, nocturnal marsupial. We called him Gabber. He wouldn't stop chittering and trying to hide under the table. Or trying to stuff peanuts into his-"

"That was before we knew what they were," Rémy mumbled, sitting down.

"Bad taste, Lachenel," Gabriel snapped. He flinched as Lachenel lifted his whip. "Anyway, I got better!"

"I really, really want my chocolates –"Raoul began plaintively, when muffled voices were heard outside.

"Oh, _here. _Well, of course I know about _this _place. I'm a prima ballerina...and they make such lovely champagne cocktails, too." Sorelli's voice could be heard through the door. "I'm sure the Vicomte's precious little sweets are in here...after all, I have a woman's intuition."

The door swung open. La Sorelli glided in, Nadir and Philippe trailing in after her. The dancer looked around confidently.

"Well, I do believe –"

Erik stepped through the doorway.

"The Opera Ghost!" some singers shrieked, and fainted dead away. Erik crossed his arms, looking smug.

"Philippe!" Raoul called excitedly, seeing his somewhat more haggard brother. He waved his hand frantically. "Philippe! I've found the chocolates! Isn't that wonderful? I think – "

Philippe stopped Erik from diving towards Raoul. "I'll get them myself, thank you, Monsieur!" He eased him back. Everyone in the bar was watching them keenly. This promised to be good entertainment.

"Now, Raoul –"Philippe spoke in the careful tones a person uses to persuade another person to drop a loaded gun, "- I want you to give me those chocolates. And then we're going home, so I can find something for my headache." He paused. "And you're de-decorating the kitchen."

"Why?" Raoul burbled, happy that things were going along so well at last, "We can all have a drink here and I can try this crème de menthe –"

"No." The Count passed a hand across his face. "Just. Please. Do what I say. Raoul."

If Raoul had been a bunny – which he might have been in some previous carnation – his ears would've drooped. "Oh...all right, then." He held them out.

Sorelli swept over and snatched them away. "Finally!" She walked back and shoved them into Erik's hands. "There! I never thought you for a chocoholic – eat them, though, because you're definitely a bit peaky."

In the stunned silence that followed she tilted her head and sighed happily. "I love worrying about other people's diet problems, don't you?" She patted Erik on the shoulder. "Come in here on Friday nights – it's Roast Night. And free drinks six till eight. If you ever need any advice – well, don't go to Carlotta -"

"Er, Sorelli," Christine began timidly, as Raoul went a funny colour, "they're not Erik's. They were Raoul's and maybe he'd like them back..."

Erik put the chocolates in Philippe's hands. "There. The Comte has them. Now remember our deal? You leave right now with Raoul and I'll pay a visit to the managers – "

"I have a better idea!" Sorelli announced, who was not a woman to let her opinions go unnoticed, "Raoul and Christine can go toddle off back to the de Chagny estate with the chocolates and...whatever. And Philippe and I –"here she put an arm around his waist, "- can go for a nice birthday dinner, to have enlightened discussion, delicious food, and an enjoyable evening all around...and if I end up taking him back to my dressing room for a special birthday gift, so be it..."

"Sounds good," Nadir said cheerfully, winking at Philippe and digging him in the ribs with an elbow. Erik rolled his eyes and Christine looked blank.

Raoul was immediately cheered. He had the chocolates, and most importantly, Christine. Well, Christine and then most importantly the chocolates. Either way, it was a win-win situation.

"Fine," Erik spat, seeing Raoul give a triumphant smirk in his direction, "Fine...except for one minuscule detail." He strode over to the couple, authority in every step. "Christine is coming with _me." _

He and Raoul looked at each other. Sorelli whistled, Christine and Nadir looked terrified, and Philippe clapped a hand to his forehead in annoyance, then started wincing as his concussed head complained. Everyone else in the bar brightened: at last, a fight! Now this was theatre!

"Twenty francs on Raoul," Gabriel muttered sidelong to Lachenel, not taking his eyes off the two men, "Fear can make you edgy."

"I'll take that. Thirty says the Opera Ghost wins – he has that lasso. Rémy, write this down, will you?" Lachenel flicked his whip. This was promising to be most interesting.

Philippe slumped in a chair and put his aching head in his hands. Why couldn't he have a normal birthday...?

* * *

(1) This is a rather long story. So here we go. Phantomessrose1881 knows this from our roleplays :D Once, Philippe and Raoul went to Siena, Italy, to visit some aristocratic friends of the family and generally have a jolly good holiday, don'tcherknow. Philippe won a rather large sum of money betting on the local horserace that takes place in Siena, and despite his protests, Raoul decided to spend it all on Italian cheese. He loves cheese. He blew all the winnings on it. He went on a cheese-eating binge and was copiously sick on Philippe's shoes. To make a long story short, Raoul brought all the extra cheese back to their estate in Paris so he could eat the rest when he felt better. Cheese, being cheese, is smelly and eventually stunk out the whole estate. Everywhere Philippe and Raoul went, they smelt of matured Italian cheddar. No one wanted to walk on the same side of the street as them. It took ages to air everything out. Now Philippe goes twitchy if he even sees a bit of cheese, while Raoul will happily scoff it all up. Here endeth the footnote. 

A/N: I feel soo guilty now. Don't worry, things will get better...eventually. :D Please review!


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